J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.
"World Rowling created" requires a further note, which is explained in greater detail in my other stories. Rowling had Dumbledore declare that Tom Riddle's claims of long-standing hostility between muggles and the wizarding community, and the insistence on 'pure blood' were lies. Dumbledore was supposedly a hero. Riddle/Voldemort was clearly evil. But Rowling, with consistent inconsistency, presented what she had Dumbledore call lies as if they were true. I suspect it is part of that fine old tradition of British humor... Excuse me, humour, like cruelty towards orphans that the rest of the world finds utterly inexplicable. Reading about an abused orphan apparently causes the English to roll on the floor with uncontrollable fits of giggles.
I treat Dumbledore's claim, that Riddle told his followers lies, as true. And as already mentioned, further explanation of the economic relationship I picture between the wizarding and muggle communities, and their growing apart as a result of the 19th century Industrial Revolution are explained elsewhere.
Chapter titles from the short version of the nursery rhyme / game The Bells of London. There are multiple versions.
Oranges and Lemons Say the Bells of Saint Clement's
Like hundreds of thousands of other veterans of the Great War I'd found myself at loose ends since the Armistice. I was more fortunate than most in finding haven in the loving arms of my family. Exactly how long I could remain safely ensconced in the familial bosom wasn't clear. Younger sons will eventually wear out their welcome. But, for the nonce, the family manor served as my billet. I arose early, tenish, and headed downstairs for my morning repast. There was a chance I might find other members of the family at table when I had my egg and kippers. Heard some chap argue that if one begins one's day by eating a toad, nothing worse can happen to you that day. I am not certain why the thought popped into my head, but perhaps it would be wise not to share said thought with family.
"Tiberius," mother exclaimed when I entered. "How lovely to have you join us for breakfast."
My dear brother said nothing, the mental focus required to spread marmalade on toast currently occupying his mind. It was probably just as well.
Edward, meanwhile had put two lumps of sugar in a cup and poured coffee for me. Young Edward is still years away from the level of performance his father managed, but he is still excellent. The Slopers know how to serve. "The usual, Sir?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"Oh, there was a phone call for you this morning."
"Right-o, and subject matter of said jangle?"
"A Mister Badger, Sir, reporting that a Mister Mucky might require your assistance."
"Mister Badger?" Marcus grunted. "Mister Mucky?"
The elder son and heir did his service in the War Office, never closer to the front than the commute from Belgrave to Whitehall and Horse Guards Avenue... I shouldn't be narrow minded. It is possible, albeit highly unlikely, that some unfortunate business connected with the war MIGHT have forced him to visit the East End. "There is a certain informality in the trenches," I informed him. "At least among the rank and file. And it would simply be Badger and Mucky. Rather like the fact I was simply TS at Hogwarts."
"They didn't have a dreadful name for you, did they?" Mother asked in horror. "In the trenches, I mean."
"No, it was always, Sir," I assured her. "My lads knew I was their CO." 'My lads' averaged a good ten years older than myself. But when they're under your command they become your lads. Not that it made any sense. I was drafted out of Hogwarts in seventh year on the premise that the son of a Lord was fit, by birth, to be an officer. There was little sense on either side in guiding the war.
"Mucky?"
"Short for mucilage. Things sort of 'stuck' to his hands."
"Some sort of curse?" Marcus suggested.
"Not literally stuck to his hands. He just picked things up. Couldn't seem to help it. In and out of gaol for petty theft before the war. Someone had to check him each night. He always claimed he didn't know how things got into his pockets."
"Then he's probably back in gaol," Marcus snorted. "Don't waste your time on the muggle."
"Badger wouldn't call unless it was something serious. I fear some of my lads thought I could work miracles."
"You didn't use magic, did you?" mother asked in her frequent voice of horror.
"I did whatever I could to stay alive, and keep my lads alive."
Edward, who had been standing patiently to the side during the conversation, placed a plate down in front of me. "Should I inform Nigel you will be going to the city?"
"Yes, have him pack my kit and... Oh, would you jangle March Hall and see if June needs to escape the asylum and flee with me to the city? Nigel can take a train."
"I will inform Nigel of your plans and telephone the Marches."
I devoted my attention to the egg. If there is anything to be gained from life on the front it is an appreciation for simple pleasures. Before the war I would have been unable to see the beauty of a soft-boiled egg. The very adjective, beauty, applied to the fruit of the hen would have struck me as utterly absurd. There were days in the trenches I would have killed for a soft-boiled egg. Which is not at all mad. I was being asked to kill for no reward at all. Edward had not opened it for me. He knew I enjoyed the simple task of opening it for myself. Edward had not seen the front. He served in the rear, but had been stationed in France. He'd met enough of the men in the trenches that he had a sensibility toward my feelings my parents and brother could never share. And with the sense of gratitude for a simple pleasure of a properly soft-boiled egg was a sense of gratitude that my parents would never have to understand the reality of the trenches.
On Edward's return he informed me, "Miss March sends an assurance that a drive to the city would be most welcome. She did, however, place certain unusual stipulations on the ride."
"Well, lay on MacDuff," I ordered.
"You are to drive the Bentley, stop at the north end of the hall, and under no circumstances are you to turn off the engine or leave the vehicle. She will come out to join you."
"Curious, but not unlike June."
Mother complained, "I wish you'd stop seeing that muggle girl."
"I'm hardly seeing her, Mumsy, I'm simply providing transportation to the city. She's a sister to me, and it's your fault." I'm not entirely clear if it was mother's fault or not, but it was convenient to blame her. When the Marches or the Malfoys had some lengthy or distant family event for which the younger children – at least those out-of-line for inheritance – were unwelcome June might be deposited here for days, or I placed under their care.
"And you're leaving your valet to take the train," Marcus added, an obvious observation he uttered for no apparent reason other than a belief he should waste time in the conversation.
"Given the choice of a pretty, and intelligent, young woman as a companion on a long drive, or a dull valet, I will choose the obvious." Nigel is a reasonably good valet. By a singular stroke of good fortune I'd acquired Nige as batman during the war. Having a squib for an attendant made my life much easier. When he joined the ranks of the unemployed after demob I was happy to hire him as valet. Nigel is not one of those genius valets who abound in fiction – with brains infinitely superior to those of their... Given my view of the typical representative of the gentry or peerage it would require very little in the way of gray matter for a valet to surpass his employer in intellect. I was vastly amused at a production of Iolanthe when the peers quailed at the threat of Strephon introducing a bill to open the peerage to competitive examination. I suspect my brother might not post marks sufficient to pass muster. I think father would keep his post, and I hope my belief is based on a realistic assessment of the old boy's ability and not simply filial loyalty.
Edward coughed gently to indicate he was not through with his communication. "And she said you should arrive at ten minutes past eleven."
I glanced at the clock on the sideboard. "Cutting it rather close, what?"
"I neglected to inform her you were still in your pajamas. She may have assumed you were prepared to leave."
"Must run," I warned Mum and Marcus, scalded my mouth quickly finishing the coffee, and pushed away from the table. "No idea how long I'll be gone. Give father my love."
Great-grandmother Vivien would tell stories of riding to March Hall. I feel as certain she could not have believed the fact I reached March Hall twenty-eight minutes after leaving the breakfast as I am certain mother would not approve of the speed necessary to accomplish the feat.
My marching orders had not included, 'Don't honk the horn', so I squeezed the bulb and it emitted the clarion call of an offended goose to alert June of my arrival.
The audio announcement of my arrival had two results. One, as might be expected, was June coming around the corner carrying a small bag.
"Idiot, I didn't say sound your horn."
"You didn't tell me not to."
I noticed the unexpected result of blowing my horn in the mirror as June's father emerged from the front door armed with a shotgun. June broke into a run, detouring to place herself between the paternal weapon and the Bentley. "Drive!" she commanded as she threw her bag behind the seat and dove headfirst into the passenger seat.
One of the many things I appreciate about being out of the army is the fact I no longer need to follow commands. Still, compelling circumstances made it seem expeditious to put the Benley in gear and hit the accelerator. In the mirror I watched June's paternal unit waving the shotgun and suspected words were coming out of his mouth which were obscured by the sound of the motor and the tires on gravel.
"Your father appeared to be carrying a shotgun," I commented dryly, while doing my best to stay on the road despite having various feminine arms and legs tangled with my own arms (and a rude encounter between her foot and my ribs). Gazing at silk encased legs represented a temptation which could only be avoided by a need to stay on the road. It is sometimes difficult to remember that my feelings to her are supposed to be limited to that of an indulgent brother toward a younger sister.
My passenger finally managed to assume a position of top-side up and and brought her dress into something approaching a state of decency. "Well, Tibsy, there is a reason for that," she assured me.
"And that reason was?"
"He was carrying a shotgun. Is there a better reason it would appear he was carrying one?"
"No, I suppose not. But one does wish to know the reason a country squire desires to perforate one's dermal layer."
"He thinks we're having sex."
"On the road to London?"
"Sex on the road sounds terribly uncomfortable, doesn't it?"
"And too much chance of being hit by a passing vehicle."
"Oh, not so. I'm quite certain they would run into the ditch or stop and stare rather than hitting us."
"True," I conceded. "Is there a reason for this, what I hope is a, passing fit of madness on the part of your father?"
"Well... I had a terribly good time at a party recently and mentioned to Cynthia, who I swore to absolute secrecy, that–"
"While I don't know Cynthia well I see an obvious flaw in your plan."
"Well, yes. In retrospect it is easy to see the problem. At the time however–"
"At the time you had far too much fun boasting to Cynthia."
"It is very rude to finish my sentences for me. No names were mentioned, and Papa has decided you are the likely partner."
"I thought a horse whip was the standard instrument of outrage towards a cad."
"We Marches don't follow fashion trends, we set them."
"Did you tell your father I am not your co-respondent?"
"Don't be silly. Neither of us are married, it would be fornication – not adultery."
"The point is, we have not had sex."
"Are you quite certain? I have caught you tampering with my memory."
Her scream alerted me to the fact my mind had left the subject of steering entirely, and I quickly resumed control of the vehicle – to the assumed relief to the horses and the driver of the hay wagon I had been heading toward. "What?" I managed to gasp.
"Is it some sort of hypnosis? Every now and then after visiting with you I find holes in my memory... The first time was... I was at your home and I found an ugly dwarf servant of some sort. It came back to me a few days later, very hazy but a real memory. I think the next time was when you showed me a portrait of your Great-grandmother when she was young, and I thought I saw one of the pictures move. The memory came back more quickly that time. And there've been a couple times since. But I don't think you've taken advantage of me, have you? Unless you're a dreadful lover and I'm better off not remembering the details."
I had been in a state of blind panic. She had seen a house elf, and I, a second year at Hogwarts, had thought myself very clever in applying a memory charm. I had apparently applied it so badly that it served to interfere with subsequent attempts to use it. "Ah, yes. Hypnosis," I agreed. "Please don't mention it anyone in the family."
"Ah, the power to blackmail you if I so desire."
"You wouldn't."
"No, I wouldn't," she admitted. "But please stop doing it. And you are quite certain we've not had sex?"
"I would remember if we had sex," I assured her. "And I would rather parental units not hear about my mail order course in hypnosis." It would embarrass me that I'd performed the charm so badly. And some family member might take it upon himself, or herself, to adjust June's memory. And the results of a memory charms can be permanently harmful. "Why did your father decide I was the cad... I'm assuming cad–"
"You are terribly old-fashioned, Tibsy. A woman can only have sex before marriage as the result of seduction or rape? This is the twentieth century. Let a woman decide for herself."
"But why did your father decide I was your consenting partner?"
June shrugged, "You are the obvious candidate. I was infatuated with you when I was ten... Perhaps as early as eight."
"And the crush was very gratifying. Especially when you sent letters to me at the front. I didn't tell my platoon you were fifteen."
"I'm certain I was over my infatuation at that point, although you did look very handsome in your uniform. I had discovered you were something of a fat head. But one does one's duty on the home front, and keeping up the morale of our gallant troops was all a schoolgirl could manage. Besides, letters from the front marked me as sophisticated and mature. I did not confess to anyone that you were an idiot."
"And so I became the prime suspect for taking your virginity?"
"You are showing your Victorian morality again, my dear Tibsy. Why do you assume I was telling Cynthia of my first time? If a man is not looked down upon for multiple partners, why should a woman be? It is nineteen-twenty-two and I believe in equality of the sexes."
"The French have a phrase, vive la différence."
"I didn't say we are the same, simply that we are equal... Though I happen to think I look fetching in white ducks."
"You would look fetching in a gunny-sack," I assured her. "But I don't think I'd look appealing in a chemise."
"Thank you for the compliment. But you are quite right about being unable to carry off a chemise. You haven't the legs for it."
"And how many partners have you had?"
"Don't be tiresome. A gentleman doesn't talk about his lovers."
"You're not a gentleman."
"Well then, a gentleman doesn't ask a woman about her experience."
"And I'm a gentleman?"
"And an officer. Would you mind, as a friend, going to father and confessing you are my paramour? It might make my life easier."
"It might end mine."
"Don't be silly. The shotgun was simply to gain your attention."
"It achieved its goal. Assuming he doesn't riddle me with shot, then what? I am forbidden to ever see you again? Perhaps I should confess."
"I thought I jumped into your car very well. We could make it something of a habit."
"Or, what if he should get it into his head that I should do the right thing by you?"
"Wouldn't that be the forbidding us to see each other again?"
"No, marriage."
"Don't be silly. We are totally unsuited for each other. You are one of the mysterious Malfoys. It doesn't matter if the local women are available, abundant, and attractive. Younger sons, and any daughters, of clan Malfoy are all married away – seldom to be seen again. And Lord Malfoy's wife will always be some stranger brought in from... Was your great-grandmother Vivien really a seamstress in London?"
"Yes, one of the darkest secrets of the house of Malfoy. Never to be revealed."
"Well, I loved to hear her tell about life in the day. And, of course, our pecuniary states would forbid our union."
"I considered poisoning Marcus for the inheritance, but I checked the etiquette books."
"And?"
"It is considered impolite to bump off anyone closer than a first cousin. My financial situation will likely not improve. Will your parents raffle you off to some wealthy American?" I would not joke with June about eliminating older siblings. Her oldest brother died at Loos, and both other brothers suffered serious wounds at Third Ypres. There was a chance my straits were not as narrow or dire as they appeared, but that may have been optimism on my part rather than realistic.
"I hope not, although given the choice of marriage to an American or some gouty, fat old banker who is a widower with grown children older than I, might cause me to reconsider the American. Lonely spinsterhood appears more attractive all the time."
"Are none of your lovers suitable candidates for marriage?"
"Do I detect a note of jealousy in the question? I told you, a gentleman doesn't ask."
"May I ask if you are going to the city to see one of your admiring throng?"
"It is not that many. It is not polite to ask. And the answer is no. It is a very pleasant day for a drive. Even with you. I shall probably find some theater to... If you ask nicely I might allow you take me to the theater, and pay for dinner."
"As attractive as your invitation sounds–"
"I was not inviting you to anything! I was saying that, should you invite me to dinner, I would be available."
"You should consider becoming a Portia. I am not certain what my business is, nor how long it will take."
"Terribly mysterious, even for a Malfoy. I had hoped my ticket was good for a round trip. You don't know why you are going to the city? I would like to believe it for the pleasure of my company. But I suspect it may simply be for change of air. Is Marcus really so insufferable? Are you sure you can't furnish me an arm to lean on at the theater and shoes to step on should I need to leave my seat?"
I hesitated, "Since I don't know the exact reason for the trip I can't be certain how long it will require. And the pleasure of your company and the absence of my brother's did make the drive even more appealing. Perhaps I can finish business early. I'll leave you to Mayfair then find Badger and ask–"
"You will not leave me in Mayfair."
"Is there shopping you–"
"You will take me with you. Your Badger is such a droll man, full of the most dreadful stories about you."
"I don't know if there will be time for any of his dreadful tales. He called to say Mucky was in some sort of scrape."
"Oh, I found out there is a word for your Mucky."
"It is pronounced thief."
"No, it is kleptomania, it is a disease. He shouldn't be in prison, he should be treated by a doctor."
"I really shall start calling you Portia. And I have no idea what his current scrape may be – although I trust Badger not to ask for help except for something serious."
"I am figuratively rubbing my hands in glee at the hint of an adventure."
"And I am figuratively throwing you from the auto for–" I glanced over.
"Throwing me from the auto?"
"I looked over and your skirt is high enough to uncover a garter. I think I shall keep you."
June pulled down her skirt to insure the greatest modesty possible given the hemline of her chemise. "I don't recall offering to stay – although I shall certainly remain with you long enough to meet your Mucky. I've heard you talk about him so often I am curious to see him for myself."
"There is nothing unusual in his appearance," I warned her.
"I will find out for myself. Perhaps we shall see more of your 'lads'?" I do love hearing what a splendid officer you were."
"The officers above me would paint a very different picture."
"They are not the ones I want to meet. And you've introduced me to so few... Who was the chemist chap? The one who wanted directions for that foot powder... You really had to inspect all their feet? My brothers never talk about that."
"The chemist was Sol. Your brothers are trying to spare you from what happened. I'm trying to discourage you from asking about the front. Trench foot was dreadful. The lads were paired and were to check each other, but my duties included periodic inspections."
"I was told your lads never suffered trench foot, there was some powder you put in the whale oil."
"Nothing unusual," I lied and waved it off. The most important ingredient was powdered dragon scales, not in the inventory of most apothecaries. "We were probably just lucky."
"Perhaps," she reluctantly agreed.
On arriving in London I found a spot to park and we took shank's mare to the Inverness Street Market. Badger had his back to us, dickering with a woman about the price of oranges. June started to raise a hand to tap him on the shoulder, but I caught her eye and shook my head 'no', then started to softly sing, "That's the wrong way to tickle Marie, That's the wrong way to kiss–"
Badger turned around and added his cracked bass to the next lines, "Don't you know that over here, lad, They like it better like this." He snapped a fast salute, "Let me finish with me customer, Sir. 'alf a mo."
Badge might have gotten tuppence more without the interruption, but he took the coins offered for the fruit and turned back. "Good to see you, Sir. You too, Miss March. Glad you could come."
June was peering around, "Tibsy said you telephoned?"
"Apothecary's shop, Miss."
"You said Mucky was in some kind of jam. And since we both know Mucky is always in some sort of scrape I figured it must be serious. Oh, before you give me the report, June wants to prove the education is not wasted on women. She has discovered a name for Mucky's problem." I looked at June, "This is your moment to shine."
She gave a feminine harrumph and glared at me, "There is only person I know on whom education was wasted, but he shall remain nameless." She looked at Badge, "It is called kleptomania."
"Cleft-toe-what?"
"Kleptomania. It's some sort of disease. You just can't help yourself, you steal things even if you don't need or want them."
Badger shrugged, "Knew 'e was like that even if'n didn't 'ave no name for it. Jus' can't 'elp 'isself."
"So, what has he gotten himself into this time? Nicked the Lord Mayor's watch?"
"'Fraid it's more serious, Sir. Stopped in a stolen car. They went through it, and in the boot was a duffle with five 'eads all cut off and a big load of morphine."
"They don't think–"
"'Fraid so. I mean, five 'eads is serious. Bobbies don't want people thinkin' there's some bloke runnin' round with a big chopper. There was Mucky, in the car with the 'eads and the dope and a record of in and out of gaol. It just seemed easy to lock 'im up and call case closed."
I sighed, this sounded more difficult than anything I'd done before for my lads... At least since we'd gotten back from France. But I knew Mucky, and I knew him to be utterly harmless, other than his questionable habit of slipping other people's property into his own pockets. "No promises. I'll see what he's up against and do what I can."
June linked arms with me, "We shall do all we can to see justice done."
"I don't recall requesting your help."
"Well you have it anyway. Two heads are better than one – especially if one of them is yours."
"This is not a game! A man's life is in danger."
"And that is all the more reason to accept any help which is offered. You should thank me."
"I should take a hair brush to your derriere."
"Later, perhaps. Right now there is a mystery to solve."
Notes
Built in 1906 at a cost of £1.2 million the War Office building (equivalent to the US Pentagon) at Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall remained in use until 1964.
The British Army was woefully unprepared for the Great War. All volunteers, the small regular army, the British Expeditionary Force basically ceased to exist by late 1914. More volunteers, termed Kirchner's Army or the second army, absorbed the remnants of the first army (who later called themselves the Old Contemptibles for the low regard the Kaiser was said to have for them). In January 1916 the draft created the third army. During the French Revolution it had been discovered that military ability is not based on social status (there was this guy you might have heard of, Napoleon), but the Brits were slow in learning the lesson and still imagined the gentry and noble classes automatically produced men of officer caliber. To what degree you can blame bad strategy on this bias is unclear. No one in any military was prepared for the new techniques and technologies which made trench war so Hellish in the War to End All Wars.
The typical Bentley 3 Litre was a touring model (open) but customized bodies were common and it could be ordered with a saloon (enclosed) body.
(Alfred) Ernest Jones introduced the cult of Freud to England in 1913. Psychoanalysis was at least as effective as other medical knowledge at the time in treating shell shock (which today would be known as PTSD - post-traumatic stress disorder) and it came into vogue in the 1920s.
Demob - demobilization. Britain quickly dropped more than three million soldiers from the ranks (creating unemployment problem in the process) while slashing military spending because the War to End All Wars was over and no one would be crazy enough to start another.
Hypnosis/Mesmerism... Franz Anton Mesmer developed the techniques we call hypnosis in the early 19th century. In the mid-19th century the term hypnosis, meaning sleep inducing, came into use - although not for mesmerism. In the late 19th century the word hypnosis began to become attached to the techniques of Dr. Mesmer. Usage remained fluid for years with hypnosis finally vanquishing the term mesmerism. The mail order course in hypnosis is an anachronistic joke based on classified ads in later magazines for boys, who dreamed it would give them power over women.
Crush, as American slang for infatuation, pre-dates the first World War.
White ducks - white duck (canvas) trousers. In the 1920s they became a unisex garment. A novelty song from 1926 makes fun of fact it can hide the gender of the person wearing them. A chemise was a sort of undergarment on its early appearance, intended for both men and women. For women it evolved into the outer dress of the flapper, which hung from shoulders to knees with no waist - allowing freedom of movement. For men it evolved into white cotton undershirts. The woman's garment was sometimes vulgarized into shimmy dress, while a style of men's undershirts was vulgarized into 'wife-beaters'.
Battle of Loos, 1915, saw the first attempt by British forces to use poison gas in battle. Poor communication turned what could have been an important victory for the Allies into defeat. Third Ypres - several battles took place around Ypres during the Great War. The third major conflict is also know as the Battle of Passchendaele, 1917.
Portia - term for woman lawyer. In Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice a disguised Portia defends Antonio in court. Since women weren't allowed on stage it would have been a young man, playing the part of a woman, disguised as a man. One wonders if might have inspired Victor/Victoria - where Julie Andrews plays a woman, pretending to be a man, who is a female impersonator. Some women in Britain had earned legal degrees beginning in the late 19th century. It became easier to enter law school after passage of the 1919 Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act, but it didn't necessarily make it easier for women to obtain jobs in the legal profession.
Trench foot was a common problem which could lead to gangrene and amputation.
'That's the Wrong Way to Tickle Marie', to the tune of, 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' was printed in the 1917 Tommy's Tunes, a collection of some of the cleaner songs sung by soldiers on the front. Needless to say 'Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire', a bitter condemnation of the comforts enjoyed by officers while privates were slaughtered, was not. The War Office thought it lowered morale, and Tommy's Tunes was meant to show how cheerfully the BEF carried on.